


still.

by relinquished



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Death, Death Knight, Gen, Ny'alotha, Worgen, suicidal ideations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-02-23 10:29:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/relinquished/pseuds/relinquished
Summary: when did he corrupt your mind?[drabble for my warcraft toon]
Relationships: Arthas Menethil/OC (Past), Illidan Stormrage/OC (Past), Lor'themar Theron/OC (Past)
Kudos: 11





	still.

**Author's Note:**

> heavy warning for wishing for death and mentions of murder and violence.

You sat on your broken throne, your sword resting against your armored thigh and your hands twitching against your legs. Glowing blue eyes stared at the solid steel floor of your wing in Ny'aLotha, focusing on nothing and everything all at once. Your breath was cold, as if you were back in the icy winds of Northrend, but you knew. You knew you were far from where your journey began, where you remember fighting back against Arthas.  
  
Insanity nipped at every corner of your mind- you twitched again- as you sat in this cursed hall. Memories faded from your grasp, but painful ones, ones that brought you to this madness stayed. Almost intentionally. Almost as if your master was holding them there, holding you there. Hostage.   
  
You rolled your shoulders and stood, your greaves clanking against the floor as you stood. Your knees protested. When was the last time you moved? When you first arrived here?   
  
Perhaps.   
  
You held your sword in your claws, your eyes sweeping the room to examine your servants before you began moving- walking. Fresh air. You couldn’t breathe, you didn’t need to at this point- a frozen corpse does not need for it- but you needed to clear your head as best as you possibly could.   
  
Clack, Clack, Clack- The metal on your greaves tore at your mind. You hated the sound. You wished it’d stop. Please, stop. For once, for the love of Light, please, stop, all of the sound, all of the noise, please, just fucking stop-   
  
You stared out at the horizon. A never-ending sunset, obstructed by your master’s limbs. How did you get here? You don’t remember.   
  
You stared out at the horizon.   
  
Lor’Themar fell in battle. Azshara. That’s what happened. A low, pained, whine slipped past your lips, your teeth baring at the thought. If the others had put in more effort, had tried harder, he wouldn’t have- He couldn’t be-   
  
You felt tears prick the corner of your eyes. You dragged your hand across your face, twitching again as you stared off.   
  
You didn’t regret killing them. You don’t think you can feel regret anymore. Only anger, and sadness you suppose. A side effect of allowing N'zoth into your mind, becoming the perfect servant to his will.   
  
When did this grief start? When did this pain, this icy cold in your chest, begin? Perhaps at Arthas, when you had to turn on him, on your lover, your best friend, because of what he had become, what you realized **_you_** had become. Perhaps not- Perhaps it was before that, when you were slaughtered by the scourge, by the people you were raised to become one of. To become the leader of.   
Pain is hard to pinpoint in this world. It was painful when you watched Arthas die, when your closest friends celebrated his fall. It was painful when, years later, when you were just happy again, your happiness was taken, and Illidan, your Fiance, fell against the Legion. When you turned your back for just a moment, and when you looked again, he was gone.   
  
It seems like every time you regain that happiness, that joy for life, it’s snuffed out.   
  
Arthas, Illidan, Lor’themar. You weren’t meant for love, you suppose. Perhaps that’s why you fit so well in this city. It’s your own personal hell - It’s so still. So quiet where you are. It left you to your own thoughts. To your imagination. To your pain.   
  
It would end soon. You hoped it would end soon. You had heard, from one of your servants, that The Champions were back, that they were trying to breach the city. Waves had failed. You hoped, deep down, they would succeed.   
  
Would they care that you would die, finally? That their fellow champion had been corrupted and placed on a pedestal for slaughter like every other beast they had all fought before?   
  
You supposed not. You killed their King. You slaughtered their leaders. You did not deserve mourning. You were there to be killed, to be impaled by their blades, and burned by their magics. You hoped it would end soon.   
  
You stared out at the horizon.   
You twitched.


End file.
